


Remains

by angel



Category: White Collar
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:56:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel/pseuds/angel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man wakes in a hospital bed with no memories while an FBI team desperately searches for one of their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Muffled sounds greeted him as he bobbed to the surface of consciousness. He couldn't really make out any of them except for the beeping. It was too slow for a bomb timer though and too fast for a clock. 

Smell came to him next, and it was... unpleasant. Stale, arid oxygen was forcing itself up his nose by two uncomfortable plastic prongs. So, he was in a hospital. That explained so much and yet not enough. 

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?” a female voice with a bit of a southern drawl said from his left. A hand then gripped his wrist, and he assumed it belonged to her and that she was nurse. Or a doctor. He didn't want to assume.

“Mmm.” He tried to respond, but no charming pick-up lines were coming to him. 

“That's good,” the woman encouraged him. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

His eyelids fluttered once, twice, and then hazy blue eyes gazed up at her. Muted shapes blended into something sort of close to his usual 20/20. “Pretty,” he murmured when he could finally see the brunette nurse in her twenties with smoky grey eyes.

She blushed for a moment, surprised by his lucidity. “Thank you. How are you feeling? Any pain?”

“Head.” It demanded the most attention right now. He couldn't even put the pain into words. 

“That's to be expected,” she replied. “Anything else?”

“Side.” He lifted his hand to point out the space between his ribs and his hip, but she guided it back down to the scratchy sheets.

“You probably don't want to do that.”

“Why not?” Two words this time. He would have been proud if she didn't distract him with another question.

“Do you remember what happened?”

He blinked; his gaze drifted away as he tried to come up with a memory of anything before he woke two minutes ago. There was nothing but a very disturbing blank slate.

“No, I don't... I don't know. I...” He shifted anxiously, starting to panic. It was hard to breath, hard to think past the spikes of agony in his head. 

“Hey, hey,” the nurse grabbed hold of his wrists to keep him from disturbing his IV, the nasal cannula or the bandages. “Calm down. Take slow even breaths. You're okay.”

“No! No! I don't know! Please! No!” 

The nurse called for help, but he couldn't follow what happened after that. They must have given him something because the scene abruptly stilled and went dark. 

~~!!~~

Special Agent Peter Burke slammed his hand down on the conference room table and stared down each of the agents around him. “Dammit, think people. Caffrey's been out of touch for over twenty-four hours. Where would he go?”

“All due respect, Sir,” Hardy, one of the junior agents, spoke up against his own better judgement. However, it was after 2 a.m., and they'd been sitting here listening to Peter shout at them all night. “Aren't you the one who can usually answer that question?”

Peter's eyes narrowed. “Get out! Get your things and get out of my sight, right now!”

“All right.” Diana stepped closer to her boss and placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Let's all take a break. Go and get some coffee everyone.” She nodded at Jones to go deal with the loudmouth ass while she tried to appease Peter.

Peter cracked his neck while he waited for everyone to scatter. Then, he looked over at Diana. “He didn't run. He knows what's at stake tomorrow. We only have one shot to get Caruso.” This particular crook, Joey Caruso, was known for buying and selling vintage, seemingly unattainable items, such as the stolen '73 Porsche 911 that Neal had been negotiating for on this operation. He was also known for his paranoia, which meant that he wouldn't deal with anyone except Nick Halden since they had already had a face-to-face.

“I know, boss,” she responded, “but yelling at the kids isn't going to help us find him any faster. They're exhausted, and Caffrey's good at being a ghost.”

“I shouldn't have cut his anklet for this case. At least, not until tomorrow night.” 

“You mean tonight. It's almost three, and you need to get some sleep.” When he started to protest, she cut him off with a look. “No arguments. I've already booked you into the FBI's finest hotel suite.” Then, she smiled. “There's a cot in the empty office down the hall. Do not stop in the break room and drink any coffee on your way there.” 

Peter sighed and trudged off. He trusted Diana to deal with the other agents and to let him know if anything came up during his nap – if he was even able to fall asleep. 

Neal had disappeared off the radar after setting up tomorrow, er, tonight's meeting with Caruso. While that wasn't particularly unusual, Neal hadn't answered his cell either. When they tracked its GPS, they found it laying in an alley not far from where he had met Caruso to set up tonight's meeting. There were no signs of a struggle, but the recent rain might have washed that away.

Most everyone had assumed that Caffrey had run, and the Marshals were pursuing that angle, but this whole thing twisted Peter's gut in a way that made him uncharacteristically uneasy. Something was wrong, but he had no way of figuring out what it was until he found Neal.

~~!!~~

Things came into focus a little quicker the next time he woke. He was alone, but that didn't last long. His heart monitor must have given him away. Sneaky bastard.

The same brunette nurse with the grey eyes walked into the room and began taking his vitals. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” he replied. It was easier than explaining all his aches and pains.

“That's good.” She smiled as she made notes in his chart. “Listen, when you were admitted you were unconscious, and there wasn't any ID on you. Can you tell me your name?”

He opened his mouth but was alarmed to discover that he didn't have anything to say. It should be the easiest question to answer. “I don't... uh...”

“It's okay,” she said, hoping to keep him calm. “You had quite the knock to the head.”

“Hurts,” was his only response.

“What hurts? Your head?”

“Yeah.” He was distracted, trying to shuffle through his mental files and find anything that might give him a clue about his name or his past. All that he could remember was this nurse and this hospital room. 

“How's the pain on a scale of 1 to 10?” 

“Um, seven?” He wasn't really sure. He wasn't curling up in agony, but he wasn't comfortable either. What a weird thing to try and determine.

“Okay. I'll get something to help with that.” She stepped out of the room but returned quickly with a syringe. She injected the contents into his IV port, but the relief wasn't immediate. She was mostly quiet while she worked but couldn't stop herself from saying, “Your tie bar had a B engraved on it. Could your name start with a B?”

He considered that before repeating, “B? B...enjamin?”

“Benjamin? Is that it?” The nurse looked hopeful, and the name was familiar on his tongue.

He shrugged, which caused pain to light up around his chest. He grunted and hunched in on himself to hug his ribs. Something was definitely wrong there.

“Breathe,” the nurse coached. “In and out. Nice and slow. You have a couple of broken ribs, so moving is going to be uncomfortable. The medication should kick in soon.”

He couldn't do much more than lay there until numbness started to spread across his body. When he was finally able to relax, he tried to run his fingers through his hair, but the nurse caught his hand. 

“Be careful. There's some swelling around your eye from a cracked cheekbone.” She indicated the right side of his face without touching it, and he was surprised to discover that the vision in that eye was a bit obstructed. “Don't worry. There's no permanent damage.” She had meant to his face, but he was still stuck on his brain.

“Except my memory,” he replied, feeling more than a little despondent. Though he was pretty sure he should be alarmed by the growing list of injuries, his body was refusing to actually panic. It was a strange sensation, but he was sure it was due to the drugs.

“The doctor will be ordering some tests. There's a good chance it'll return over the next few days or weeks.” She smiled again but was distracted by the beeper at her side. “I've got to check on another patient, but I'll let the doctor know you've been awake, and he'll come to take a look at you.”

“Wait.” He tried to grab her sleeve but his reflexes were too slow. “I didn't... get your name.”

“It's Nikki. I'll be back to check on you soon, okay?”

She was gone before his brain worked up an acknowledgment. He was distracted anyway. “Nick? Nick... Benjamin...” Neither of these names seemed right, but they sounded so authentic to him. His brain hurt too much to dwell on it for long. Within a few minutes, medication and exhaustion won out over curiosity, and he drifted back off. 

~~!!~~

Diana decided to play a hunch, which she could only hope panned out. After this, she was completely out of ideas.

She had gone over all the information they had on Caffrey's last known whereabouts and kept circling back around to the alley and cell phone. If Neal was going to ditch the phone, he would have thrown it into a dumpster or a trash can. Neither of which were in the immediate vicinity of where it was found. In fact, there wasn't much there at all, just a couple of recessed doorways several feet away that led to abandoned shops.

In fact, Neal had no reason to be in this alleyway at all unless he had found trouble after the meeting. She rolled her eyes; he was practically the poster child for trouble on a good day. 

She spent an hour calling all the local hospitals and giving out Neal's description. She finally got a hit at Mount Sinai. A John Doe had been admitted within the last day with brown hair, blue eyes, and no more than 5% body fat. It didn't hurt that he had been wearing an expensive suit with a blue tie, which was pretty much the official Caffrey dress code. The man appeared to have been mugged, but he hadn't been able to give them details due to his state of unconsciousness at the time of arrival. 

She woke Peter and Jones, who'd been napping in his own desk chair and using hers as a footstool, and insisted that she be the one to drive them all to the hospital. They were all cautiously optimistic that this nightmare was over. Neal had become an important part of their team, and no one really wanted to go back to working cases without him.

~~!!~~

Nikki led the FBI agents to the end of the hall where their John Doe was resting in a semi-private room. Due to it being a slow week on the Neurology floor, he had the room to himself for now. “He's regained consciousness a few times, but he's been a bit agitated. His loss of memory seems to be the most concerning to him, but he's responded to the name Benjamin. Is that his name?”

Peter, Jones and Diana all exchanged the same look of hope tinged with fear. They'd given Neal the Benjamin alias while taking down corrupt politician Gary Jennings not so long ago.

“No,” Diana answered when the neither Jones nor Peter spoke up. “If it's our guy, his name is Neal.”

Peter tuned out what the nurse was saying and held his breath as they stepped through the door and finally got to see the patient. Despite the swelling around his right eye marring his usually handsome face, it was unmistakably Caffrey. “Neal?” Peter was by his side in a second without knowing how he got there.

Neal shifted on the bed, waking at the sound of voices in his room. Someone was squeezing his hand a little too hard, and the desperation of it confused him. He blinked away the lingering fog of sleep and stared at the man holding his hand.

“Hey, Neal,” the man said, anxious relief showing through his thin smile. “How are you doing?”

Neal's soft response might as well have been a physical blow. “Who are you?”

Peter's knees nearly buckled, and Jones stepped forward to quickly and silently guide Peter into the visitor's chair next to the bed. Everyone's heart sunk at those three short words, at the confusion and query.

Diana waited for someone to say something. Peter had let go of Neal and was sitting bent over with his head in his hands. Jones was standing behind him, one hand on Peter's shoulder while he averted his eyes from Caffrey's face. Neither of them looked like they were going to step up and say anything, so she once again took matters into her own hands. 

“Your name is Neal Caffrey, and you work for the FBI. That's Special Agent Peter Burke, our boss. Behind him is Special Agent Clinton Jones, and I'm Special Agent Diana Berrigan.”

“Am I an agent?” Neal asked. He had so many questions. This was the first one to pop into his mind.

She almost laughed. “No, you're a consultant.”

“Oh.” He was disappointed by this and wasn't sure why. Nor did he know what else to say. He glanced at the two men, but neither would even look at him.

“You've been missing for more than twenty-four hours, so you'll have to forgive us. It's been a long day.”

“I'm sorry.” He offered the apology without thought. It seemed like the right thing to say to placate them. The misery in the room was weighing down on him, trying to smother him despite the oxygen still forcing itself up his nose.

“It's okay.” Diana moved to the side of his bed opposite Peter and Jones. “It's not your fault. Do you remember what happened?”

“No. I tried, but I just can't.” 

Neal sounded so forlorn that she almost leaned over and gave him a hug. However, she wasn't the hugging type, and she doubted that he would take too kindly to it either. “That's okay,” she assured him. “Do you mind if we sit with you for a little bit?”

“I don't...” Neal sought out Nikki, who was standing by the door, waiting to see if their presence would upset him. “Is that okay?”

Unexpectedly, Diana had to blink back tears. The question was so wrong coming from his lips. Caffrey never asked permission or worried about the rules. In fact, the only reason he ever knew the rules was to break them.

“Visiting hours technically ended about eight hours ago, but they're due to start back up in a few, so I don't see the harm in letting them stay. Unless you're too tired.” Nikki was giving him an out, which he appreciated immensely. However, these three people were his only link to the life that he couldn't recall, and if he was going to get any answers, he had to keep them close.

“They can stay,” he finally decided, clocking everyone's reactions to his words. Mostly, they all appeared to be relieved. 

“All right.” Nikki turned her attention to the FBI agents. “Don't tire him out too much. I'll be back to check on him shortly.”

The room fell into silence after she left. Neal's gaze wavered between the three of them, but he didn't say anything. Questions were tumbling around in his mind, each one more important than the last, but he had no idea where to start. 

Jones was the first to move. “I'm going to go make some calls. Let the office and Elizabeth and the little guy know that we found him. I'll bring back coffee.”

“Coffee,” Neal murmured, latching onto the word. An image rose in his mind of himself sitting on a patio with a breathtaking view of the city and a cup of amazing coffee. “Cream, no sugar.”

Jones looked surprised. “I'll ask if you can have some.”

Neal nodded, groaning as pain knifed through his head. 

The sound pulled Peter out of his funk, and he jumped toward the bedridden man. “Hey, you okay? You need the nurse?”

“No.” Neal squeezed his eyes shut and rode out the pain. “No moving. Gotta remember that.”

“Take it easy,” Peter said, patting Neal's shoulder. He was unsure of the action, but relaxed a little when Neal accepted the gesture by leaning into it unconsciously.

The conman was still working on pushing the pain away when Jones returned. His eyes opened, and he frowned when he only saw three cups of coffee.

“Sorry, Caffrey. The pretty nurse said you're restricted to ice chips for the time being.” 

“What'd El say?” Peter asked after downing more than half the cup in one gulp.

Neal sulked silently in his bed while Jones caught Peter up on the calls. Elizabeth was on her way, with Mozzie, who was willing brave the hospital and the germs to check on his best friend. He had only told them that Neal had a pretty nasty concussion and that he was having trouble remembering things. Otherwise, the calls to both the FBI office and Marshals had gone as well as could be expected. 

When Nikki walked in a few minutes later with Neal's ice chips, he'd given up on following the conversation and had fallen back to sleep. 

~~!!~~

Just before dawn, Dr. Richard Reade kicked everyone out so that he could assess his patient in private. He needed to have a good sense of Neal's neurological status before he could move forward with any course of treatment. 

The exam took almost an hour. Everyone nearly jumped him when he finally stepped out of the room.

“How is he? And don't give us any of your vague doctorly platitudes. We want answers.” Mozzie was surprisingly the loudest voice over the chorus of 'is he okay' and 'what's going on' from the others.

Dr. Reade motioned for them to sit, but it took a moment for everyone to comply. “He's doing very well compared to his condition yesterday. He's awake, alert, and responding to questions.”

“What about his memory?” Peter interrupted, needing to know if they were going to get their Neal back. This whole thing was crazy – straight out of some bad straight-to-video movie. He had no idea what to do if Neal never regained his memories – he couldn't consult for the FBI, but could they throw him back into prison for crimes he didn't know he committed?

“The brain is a very tricky organ. It's easily injured but remarkably resilient. However, I can't tell you if or when Mr. Caffrey will get his memories back. That's up to his brain.” He let that sink in for a minute. “I've got him scheduled for another MRI shortly. So far, we're seeing signs that the hematoma is diminishing. That should help.”

“Hematoma?” This time it was Elizabeth asking the question that they were all thinking.

“Mr. Caffrey has a bruise on his brain right around here,” the doctor indicated his own temple. “Some long-term memory is stored here, so the swelling and pressure are inhibiting his ability to access that information. Any other symptoms of the concussion are minor for now. He's complained most often of a headache.”

“What about his other injuries?” Peter asked. He put his arm around his wife, who was sniffing back tears.

Dr. Reade ran down the list of injuries – cracked cheekbone, broken ribs, knife wound to his right flank, sprained ankle. Most of the injuries were to his right side, which Peter, Diana, and Jones all made mental note of. That likely meant that Neal's attacker was left-handed. 

The final word was that Neal would be uncomfortable for a while, but he would heal. The only uncertainty was his memory, and no one had any inkling of a prediction for that.

~~!!~~

The doctor tried to restrict Neal's visitors to two at a time, but that didn't work out so well. Peter sent Diana and Jones home to get some rest, and then he, El, and Mozzie found chairs in Neal's room where they could keep an eye on him and be out of the way of the medical personnel at the same time. 

The night nurse Nikki went off shift while Neal was sleeping, which caused a mild panic attack when he woke to find a red-head pinching the side of his neck to check his reaction to painful stimulus. She was brusque with him when he asked for Nikki, and Peter quickly threw her out, demanding a new nurse with an actual bedside manner.

Neal was cautious in his interactions with the people that called themselves his friends, but Peter's treatment of the nurse went a long way toward establishing a new trust between them. He listened as Peter talked about the Yankees and a case that they had worked together at the stadium, and Peter let him ask questions about their consultant arrangement. Though Peter and the others had agreed to keep quiet about Neal's less than honest lifestyle choices, they did have to tell him something, and lies of omission were better than nothing at all. 

He liked Mozzie, who entertained him with all manner of strange stories and didn't seem to expect any specific reaction from him, unlike the Burkes, which put him at ease with the eccentric man. Mozzie also had a deck of cards, and they played a few slow games of five-card draw. Neal was too concussed to keep an accurate count, but Peter or Elizabeth slipped him some cards to keep the game interesting.

Elizabeth went into full mother-hen mode. She fed him ice chips and adjusted his blankets and gently smacked his hand away every time he tried to take off the nasal cannula. She was the only one who touched him with any regularity, whether it be to run her fingers through his hair when he woke from a mostly unremembered nightmare or to hold his hand when the drugs started to wear off. He'd even caught her singing softly to him when she thought he'd been asleep. While he was grateful for the concern, the contact didn't quite feel right, and he spent as much of his time pulling away as he did leaning into it. 

All of the vigilance and uncertainty wore him out, and he slept much of the day away. The dreams that he could recall started out being too dim and fuzzy to make sense of, but as the day wore on, and he spent more time with people that clearly were his friends, they started to sharpen and focus. 

~Finis?

Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neal is escorted home by his friends, but all he wants is to be left alone.

Three long and tiring days later, Neal was doing well enough that the doctor released him with the stipulation that someone needed to be available to keep an eye on him. His concussion was still giving him headaches and sometimes made him unsteady on his feet. Not to mention that the amnesia was still an issue. He was getting flashes of people and places, but none of it made sense and mostly just frustrated him even more.

Mozzie and Elizabeth agreed to take the brunt of the Neal-watching work, but Peter, Jones, and even Diana had volunteered to help out. Also, June was expected back from Australia, where she'd been vacationing with her granddaughters, at the end of the week. He wouldn't be wanting for company for a while.

Neal gaped as Peter parked outside of June's house. It was afternoon, and the light shined on the mansion in a way that made it look like it was out of a fairy tale. “I live here?”

“Yeah. It surprises me every day too,” Peter replied, getting out of the car and opening the back passenger door. He held out a hand to help Neal, but the younger man batted him away with an annoyed glare. 

With one hand guarding his ribs and stitched stab wound, Neal used the other to pull himself out of the Taurus. He stood for a moment, getting his bearings and taking in the neighborhood. It was well kept, and the houses were all large and extravagant. Neal felt uncomfortable, like he didn't quite belong in this world despite the designer pants and sweater he was wearing. 

Elizabeth gently put her arm around his waist while Mozzie grabbed Neal's overnight bag from the trunk. “C'mon, sweetie. Let's get you inside.”

“I don't understand,” he said while they crossed the street. “How do I live here?”

“A lovely lady named June owns the house,” Mozzie explained patiently. “She rents you the top floor apartment.”

Neal looked up, up, up to the fourth floor and groaned. “It had to be the top floor, didn't it?”

“It has a great view.” Elizabeth smiled and gently tugged him forward. He was paling and starting to stagger. 

“And a service elevator for the cleaning staff.” Mozzie had used it himself while recovering from his gunshot wound. It was a tight fight with a wheelchair, but Neal would be okay as long as he could stay on his feet that long. 

“Thank God for small favors.” Neal dropped his head and concentrated on keeping up his sluggish pace. He was tiring quickly but didn't want to alarm the others. They had a tendency to close ranks and gang up on him when he showed any sign of fatigue or weakness.

“Let me help,” Peter said, smoothly replacing Elizabeth on Neal's uninjured left side and taking more of his weight. Neal recoiled, but when Peter threaded his fingers through Neal's belt loop to keep him from pulling away, the younger man gave in and accepted the assistance.

Together, they made it to the front door where Evelyn, the maid, greeted them with a big smile. “Welcome home, Mr. Neal. Please let me know if there's anything that you need.” She had just started working for June recently, and neither Neal nor Mozzie had been able to stop her from calling him 'Mr. Neal' yet.

Surprised by her acknowledgment, Neal stumbled and almost fell. Peter was forced to shift his grip and nearly carry his friend the next few steps to an available chair where Neal curled in on himself and grunted as quietly as possible. He was tense, pain spreading from his broken ribs, which had jostled uncomfortably, and his head, which was throbbing from the anxiety and uncertainty about the trip home. 

“I'm so sorry,” Evelyn was apologizing, but Neal couldn't respond. Peripherally, he realized that Mozzie had stepped in to take care of the housekeeper, and he was grateful.

“It's okay, Ev. Neal's just a bit sore. Could you bring him a glass of water?” 

It was Elizabeth who kneeled in front of him and held up a large white pill. “Take this.”

“No.” Neal's breathy refusal was complete with a head shake that caused his vision to go gray for a moment. “I'll be okay in a minute.”

She pursed her lips unhappily. “Sweetie, there's no need for you to be in pain.”

He didn't know what to say to that, but he also didn't like the way the painkillers fogged his mind. Thanks to his head injury, he didn't need any other help in that area. What he really needed was time alone to get himself together.

Peter couldn't handle seeing his friend in pain any longer. Neal was trying to be stoic, but it really only made it more obvious that he was distressed and hurting. “Neal,” Peter's voice was stern, “take the damn pill.”

Neal's head jerked up; Peter's tone didn't sit well with him, and he was so tired of them trying to tell him what to feel or think or do. The adrenaline suddenly pumping through his system dulled the pain better than any pill could, and he stood and backed away from them. “You can't tell me what to do! I don't even know you! I'm not taking any pills, and I don't need any of your help! Leave me alone!”

Everyone froze in place, and the only sound for a long moment was Neal's harsh breathing. His eyes darted between Peter, Elizabeth and Mozzie, as he considered his next move. He wasn't familiar with this house and didn't know where he could go to get away from them. 

Oddly, it was Evelyn who broke the showdown. She was oblivious to the scene when she walked up behind Neal and patted his shoulder. “Here's your water, Mr. Neal.”

He startled badly, knocking the glass out of her hand as he spun to face her. His hands came up to protect himself from the perceived threat, and Evelyn shrieked and ran from the room. Neal was left staring at empty space. 

“Hey?” Peter called out as he slowly took a step toward the younger man, as if he were approaching a snake that was ready to strike. “Look at me. Neal?”

Neal turned to face Peter, and his haunted eyes exposed far too much of his anger and confusion and suffering. “Stop. Stop calling me that.”

Peter held his hands up in a gesture of harmlessness, but that didn't stop him from taking another step closer. Neal was surely about to crash, and the kid didn't need any more bruises to add to his already impressive collection. “What would you like us to call you?”

That took the fight out of him. It was the question he kept coming back to in his mind over and over again. They insisted on calling him Neal but even that didn't feel right. “I don't... I don't know.” 

“Noman is my name. Noman my father and my mother call me,” Mozzie quoted as he too slowly stepped forward, hands out to catch his friend if he faltered.

“Homer.” Neal identified the origin without thinking. It just slipped out, and it frustrated him that he could name epic Greek poets but not himself.

Mozzie smiled, trying to be encouraging. “That's correct, mon frere.”

Neal blinked as his adrenaline rush faded and he fell, nearly clipping his head on an occasional table as he went down. No one was close enough to catch him, but their hands were on him almost immediately, and he made a weak attempt at pushing them away. His head was spinning, and nausea was threatening to turn into something messy, and he just wanted to be alone.

Peter and Mozzie gently but swiftly moved him to the couch in the parlor while Elizabeth gathered a blanket and another glass of water. Offering the small, but tangible comforts for their ailing friend made them all feel a little better.

“Please,” Neal pleaded a few minutes later, throwing a forearm over his eyes as his head throbbed despite the painkiller Elizabeth had helped him take with sips of water. “Please leave me alone.”

They quietly backed out of the room, leaving him to try and sleep. No one knew what to do, though they all fiercely wanted to help him get through this. Neither Mozzie nor the Burkes were ready to leave yet, so they hunkered down in June's main sitting area to wait him out.

~~!!~~

Neal woke to the quietness and shadows of early evening in the old mansion. He slipped by his sentries; Elizabeth had fallen asleep on one of the sofas, and Peter and Mozzie were in the middle of a heated game of cards across the room. Slowly, he climbed the stairs, letting his mind wander as he instinctively made his way to his apartment. 

On the second floor, he passed a coffee table that reminded him of an older black man with a deep voice and, oddly, piano music. He started humming a song that he didn't recognize as he continued to the next flight of stairs. 

When he reached the third floor, he saw a worn soccer ball in a chair with a couple of dolls. He stopped and stared at them for a moment trying to grasp the image of a young girl in a bright yellow jersey and stretch it out into an actual memory. When even the mental picture slipped away, he sighed, slumped down on the bottom step of the last flight and closed his eyes.

He hated the residual weakness from his attack, and he couldn't stand not knowing anything about his past or the people downstairs or if – _when_ – he would get better. Amnesia was not fun, and Neal was more than ready for it to be over.

Footsteps alerted him that someone was coming, but he didn't bother to raise his head. “Neal?” Peter cautiously spoke the name. “You okay?”

“Peter,” Neal muttered, not at all surprised that it was the FBI agent who'd come looking for him. Actually it wouldn't have surprised him if it were Mozzie or Elizabeth either, seeing as how they all liked to keep him in sight at all times.

“Hey,” the older man said as he eased down on a step close to Neal, “I just got a phone call. Diana and Jones arrested the guy that we think attacked you. Are you feeling up to viewing a line-up?”

Shaking his head, Neal finally looked up. “Not today. Please.”

“Okay. That's okay. We can hold him for forty-eight hours, and I think you need to get some sleep in a real bed.” He stood and held out a hand so that Neal could make the decision about asking for help or not. Elizabeth had pulled him aside a few minutes ago and told him to go easier on their friend, to give Neal time to request something before manhandling him into what Peter wanted him to do.

Neal stared at Peter's hand for a full minute before grasping it with his left and letting Peter pull him to his feet. As soon as he was steady, he let go and made his way up the remaining stairs by himself.

The studio apartment was not what he'd expected. The high ceilings and terrace alone were well worth whatever he paid for such a spacious home. There were drawings and paintings scattered about in various states of completion, which he wanted to examine more closely, but it was the view outside that drew his attention. It was breathtaking. Literally.

Peter slipped an arm around Neal's waist before he could take a second tumble onto the hard wood. He didn't say anything as he shuffled with Neal to the bed. He got the former conman seated on the mattress and then bent down to remove his shoes. 

Removing his sweater and pants would be too much of an effort, so Neal lay down on his side, wrapped his arms around the closest pillow, and closed his eyes. He was vaguely aware of Peter placing his lower legs and feet on the bed, and then pulling a down comforter over him. Neal nodded off quickly and dreamed of the apartment, of paintings and sketches, of women and wine.

Peter took a seat on the couch and watched Neal sleep. He thought of the tracking anklet that he'd left in the console of the Taurus. He'd told Hughes that he'd put it back on his consultant tonight, but Neal was in no state to understand or deal with the shackle that he didn't remember negotiating for nearly three years ago. In fact, Peter was dreading that conversation.

“Hey,” Elizabeth whispered, peeking through the partially open door behind Peter. “Is he asleep?”

“Yeah,” he turned and beckoned her inside. “He made it all the way up the stairs, but I think it was a bit too much.” 

She smiled and sat on his lap where he curled an arm around her back and she put her own around his neck. It was cozy and allowed them to comfort each other after the tough day. “He needs some independence. We've been hovering over him practically since he woke up.” She looked over at Neal when he sighed in his sleep and rolled over. “It must be scary, not knowing who you are, who we are.”

Peter rested his head against her shoulder but didn't say anything. 

“What's wrong?” Elizabeth looked down at him but couldn't see his face.

“I have to put the anklet back on him tomorrow which means-”

“-that you have to tell him why you're putting a anklet on him. Oh, hon.” She hugged him and kissed the crown of his head. Who knew how Neal would react to that news. So far, he'd been almost completely unpredictable. 

He leaned in to her and closed his eyes against all the possibilities of how tomorrow could go. He'd really hoped Neal's memory would return before he had to do anything with the tracker.

“You need to get some sleep.” She stood and held her hands out to him, but he shook his head.

“I should stay with him. Without the anklet on, I can't leave him alone.”

She frowned but nodded. “I talked to June on the phone a few minutes ago. She said that we could have any room that we wanted, so I'm going to find one just downstairs. If anything happens, come and get me, okay?”

Instead of lying, something he promised he'd never do to her, he just said, “Nothing's going to happen. He's sleeping, and I'm going to get some shut-eye too. This couch is more comfortable than it looks.” Elizabeth needed her rest too, and Peter wouldn't wake her for anything less than a life or death emergency.

She kissed him goodnight and left him to stretch out and try to calm his mind. He'd thought that finding Neal was the hard part, but he'd had no idea what he was stepping into when he walked in that hospital room a few days ago.

~~!!~~

Neal spent the next morning rifling through his life, trying to get a sense of who he used to be. By lunchtime, he'd determined that he was a damn good artist with a suit collection to rival a 1960s remake movie's costume department. He might or might not be a wino based on the number of empty bottles in his recycle bin and full ones in the wine rack. And he apparently took his meals elsewhere because the fridge was mostly empty except for some beers, a couple of opened bottles of white, and vegan cheese. 

“Am I vegan?” he asked Mozzie with a seriousness that caused the grifter to laugh.

“No, despite my best efforts. Those are mine.” He pointed to himself when he said, “Lactose intolerant.” 

Nodding, Neal grew even more somber. “Am I an alcoholic?”

Mozzie laughed even louder. This impromptu game of twenty questions was turning out to be the most fun he'd had in ages, subject matter notwithstanding. “Again, no. You and I both enjoy a vintage bottle every now and then.”

Neal raised an eyebrow. “Have you seen the empties in there?”

Leaning back in his chair, Mozzie only smiled and pointed to the chess board. “It's your move.” 

They were sitting on the terrace at Neal's request. He loved the fresh air and the view and would probably stay out here all day if they let him. For the moment, he considered his options, hesitating before moving his knight. His headache had finally faded with more painkillers but the resulting haze was making it hard to focus. “Can I ask you another question?”

Mozzie immediately made his own move and said, “Checkmate.” He pushed the board aside and gave his full attention to his friend. “Judge a man by his questions rather than his answers.”

“Voltaire?”

“Correct. What did you want to ask?”

Neal leaned closer as he inquired, “What kind of work do I do with the FBI? That female agent-”

“Lady Suit. You usually call her Diana.” Mozzie was stalling for time by interrupting. This was the Suit's territory, and besides, they'd agreed to keep Neal's darker past quiet for now.

Neal hadn't quite gotten the hang of Mozzie's nicknames for everyone, though he'd figured out that anything Suit meant FBI, and that it wasn't a term of endearment. He frowned, but nodded. “Diana said that I was a consultant. What does that mean?”

Mozzie fidgeted with his wrist-kerchief and avoided Neal's eyes. “You... consult.”

Neal rolled his eyes and sighed. “Consult on what?”

“Evil government mind control experiments. I don't know. I don't ask,” Mozzie lied as he stood and made a beeline for the kitchen. “Do you want a drink? I need something.”

Neal slowly followed him inside as his curiosity was piqued even more. “You're not telling me something. What is it?”

Before Mozzie could respond, the apartment door swung open and Peter walked inside. He immediately frowned at the bottle in Mozzie's hand. “Isn't it a little early for that?”

Shrugging, Mozzie muttered something about needing vitamin C and scuttled out of the room with the entire champagne bottle. 

Peter shot Neal a bemused look before realizing that Neal was probably more confused that he was. “You okay?”

Glaring at the question, Neal leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms over his chest with a minor wince of pain. Maybe the painkillers were a good idea after all if his broken ribs and stitched wound barely pulled at his actions. “I really wish you'd stop asking me that.”

“Sorry.” Peter replied. “I won't ask again. For a couple of hours at least.”

Neal sighed but dropped that line of conversation. He had more pressing things on his mind anyway. “Peter, what do I consult on? Mozzie wouldn't tell me.”

This was the conversation that Peter had been dreading, but it was the one he'd come in here to have. He took a deep breath to steady himself and gather his thoughts before pulling Neal's anklet out of his pocket and holding it up. 

Neal would have backed away if he could. “What's that?”

Peter decided that it was better to just rip the bandaid off, so to speak. He practically blurted, “This is your electronic monitoring anklet.”

Neal's mouth dropped open and his knees buckled when the words hit him. He'd heard them before; he'd _said_ them before. Peter jumped forward to catch him, panicking when Neal's eyes rolled back and his lids shuttered closed. Was he... Peter was afraid to hope.

Images were flashing too fast for Neal to really grasp, and it took him a moment to realize that he was remembering moments from his past. Snapping his anklet in place and joking with Peter and Jones. Showing it off to a woman, a mark maybe, with a terrible pink scarf that clashed with her vibrant red hair. Sitting in a hotel room with Diana, both of them clad in bathrobes, as he drew a bridge on the wall. Fitting the anklet around a pug's neck. June's dog. Bugsy. The memories flooded back with a rapidity that overwhelmed his system, and he blacked out.

When he came to, he was laying on his bed in his apartment and Peter and Elizabeth were both by his side. Elizabeth was sitting on the mattress next to his hip while Peter hovered over her shoulder. “I remember,” he murmured, tone quiet with the weight of his affirmation.

Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from sobbing out loud while Peter hugged her from behind. Neal stared at the couple, letting his recollections of them and their friendship fall into place. He must have lost a few moments while stuck inside his head because the next thing he knew, Elizabeth was pulling him into a hug and Peter's arms were wrapping around him too. They held him as tightly as they dared, always mindful of his injuries, but he clung to them desperately as the stress and emotion of the past few days flooded over them, crested and washed away.

~Finis

Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> * Title borrowed from the song of the same name by Maurissa Tancharoen and Jed Whedon. It's featured in Epitaph One, the last episode of season 1 of Dollhouse. If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it.
> 
> * Also, the B on Neal's tie bar came from an interview where Matt Bomer mentioned that the tie bar was Byron's and has the B engraved on it. That's how this fic got started.


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